In Southwark Street, the Guv parted from his companion and made his way to an ironmonger’s shop. I stepped back from the group and followed him in.
“Hunting that Barker fellow?” the proprietor asked Barker immediately. “You’ll need a good lantern.”
“What Barker fellow?” the Guv asked.
“There’s this bloke named Barker who killed a lord. He sapped three peelers and is at large in the City. Someone’s put up a reward for whoever brings him in. Two hundred and fifty quid. I’ve sold six lamps so far. Only got two left.”
“Two hundred fifty quid is a lot of money,” Barker said. “A fellow could retire on that.”
“You’ll ’ave to catch him first. He’s a slippery one from what I hear. Some kind of detective. And you’ll ’ave to fight off a few hundred other people out looking for him, too.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Big fella. Dresses like a toff. Mustache and dark-lensed spectacles.”
“That don’t sound too hard to find. Where was he last seen?”
“Right here in Lambeth, headed north by cab. It’s been a boon to business, I don’t mind saying, though I wisht I was out looking myself. I could find something to do with that reward money.”
“Why don’t we make that two lanterns, then?” Barker asked. “Who’s giving this money away? Scotland Yard?”
“Not bloody likely they’ll want our help, is it? No, it’s private, like.”
“Could it just be a rumor, then?” I asked. “Is it in the newspapers?”
“Not yet,” the man admitted. “But it’s all over London. Common knowledge by now.”
“Is he traveling alone?” I asked.
“Far as I know. Reward’s only for Push hisself.”
“Push?” Barker asked.
“It’s ’is moniker. Rhyming slang. Push-Comes-to-Shove. Guv.”
“So you know him, then.”
“Oh, everyone knows Barker. Don’t expect ’im to just walk up and let you clap irons on him, though. He’s stubborn as two mules and kicks harder.”
“Ta for the warning.”
A few minutes later we were walking down Southwark, swinging our unlit lanterns.
“First the police are after us and now there is a reward,” I said, shaking my head. “Your bank accounts are frozen and half of London is out hunting for us. Nightwine’s behind this, too.”
“Aye. It’s no coincidence that the Irishman and I have both been brought low on the same morning.”
“Why don’t we catch up with Vic and find out what he’s heard?”
Barker has watchers all over London who provide him with goods and information, most of whom answer to the phrase “Barker sent me.” My least favorite among them was a street Arab and constant irritant that went by the name Soho Vic. As I understood it, he was a miniature Fagan, running a warren full of underage messengers in Whitechapel.
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Barker countered. “Two hundred and fifty pounds might not be much to us under normal circumstances, but it’s a fortune for Vic. I don’t want to put him in the way of so much temptation, especially with the number of mouths he has to feed. Besides, people know he delivers messages for us and will be following him, hoping he’ll lead them to us.”
“So, we’re alone, then. Cut off from all effectual aid. Nightwine certainly knows what he’s about. What o’clock is it?”
“Nearly four,” he said, consulting his old repeater. I’d left my pocket watch back on my desk in Craig’s Court, the special one given to Barker by the Prince of Wales.
“If we were to have a pint at the right kind of public house, we might learn more about this reward.”
“Thomas, that is a canny suggestion, the first one you’ve made today. I know just the place.”
Ten minutes later we were sitting in a dark tavern with pint glasses in front of us. I was glad it was dark so I couldn’t see how dirty the table was, or what was crawling about underfoot. I was also relieved I hadn’t ordered any food, even though we’d missed lunch. I’d hoped for a better class of public house, but understood that matters such as a rumored reward would be more likely to be discussed openly in a tavern like this one in George Street, which was called the Regency Buck.
“They say the Irishman will live,” someone said at a nearby table.
“Take more than a bit of poison to bring him down. Seamus is a tough old bird. So’s Push, for that matter.”
“I’d have paid cash money,” another man said, “to see the Guv take apart three blues and chain them like a necklace ’crost Charing Cross footbridge.”
“Where’d ye s’pose the Moor’s got to?”
“Bound to be somewheres. Can’t have one wiffout t’other.”
“Is it true there’s a big reward, then?”
Barker had hoped to slip the question in unobserved, but in a place like this, one has to establish one’s bona fides before being allowed to participate in such rarefied conversations. However, it was a juicy question, one that everyone wanted to discuss anyway, and so they let it slip by, which I’m sure was what the Guv had intended.
“What reward might that be, mister?” the publican asked, coolly.
“Two hundred and fifty quid for Barker’s head on a pole, that’s what reward. Personally, I don’t believe it. Somebody’s pulling our leg.”
“That’s where you’re wrong then, mister. The Elephant and Castle gang have been spreading the message, and swore the bloke that started it spread out the entire amount in front of them in ten-pound notes, to show he had ’em.”
“What did he look like, this chap with the notes?”
“They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Shadwell,” Barker said. “Me and my boy are up from Surrey. We don’t wanna waste our time. How many are out lookin’?”
“Go back where you come from, then,” one of the crowd advised. “There’s hoondreds of us. Some ’ud hunt down Cyrus Barker for nothin’, just to knock him off his bleedin’ perch. Put my cousin in Holloway two months ago, he did.”
“Isn’t the Met looking for him, as well?” Barker asked.
“That’s why we’re here,” one man said. “The manhunt starts in about harf an hour on the embankment in front of Scotland Yard. We’re gettin’ our last drinks in before we sign up.”
“What do you say, boy?” Barker asked. “Shall we hunt this detective fellow or go home?”
“Whatever you say, Da,” I replied, trying not to look intelligent, which my contemporaries will tell you is not difficult.
“Wouldn’t hurt to look about for an hour or two, would it? Might bump into this Barker bloke by accident, like.”
“Who’s this Moor fellow, then?” I asked.
“Barker’s assistant,” the publican explained.
“Wha’, is he a blackamoor?”
“Nah, though he’s dark enough. Stands for: More-the-Merrier, Barker’s terrier!”
Everyone enjoyed a laugh over that. The problem with nicknames, I’ve always thought, is that one never gets to invent one’s own.
“Shall we go?” Barker asked.
I put down my sour beer, and dropped a few coins upon the ringed and dirty table. “Gladly.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Instead of retreating to the anonymity and relative safety of the east or south once we were in the street, Barker herded me back along the Thames toward the embankment again.
“Surely you don’t intend for us to go back to the bridge?” I asked, alarmed.
“Thomas, I didn’t shave my mustache and put on this eye patch merely to cower in a corner somewhere. We’re heading along the river for a few miles, and the easiest way to reach it is by the embankment.”
“But it’ll be swarming with constables.”
“Constables who will be looking for a pair of desperate fugitives, not men offering to help in the search. The trick is to be bold as brass. Now, stop dawdling.”